The Countdown
by Forestwater
Summary: Hey, it's Marco. And I'm about to ruin . . . pretty much everything. Care to join me?
1. Three

My name is Marco.

You know that, of course. And let's be real: you know everything that's supposed to come next. I can't tell you my last name. Aliens are among us. Nobody is safe. Grab your perishables. The whole spiel.

Unfortunately, that's all still true. I wish it wasn't — I wake up every day wishing it wasn't — but it is. We're fighting the Yeerks with everything we've got, and it feels like we're losing more ground every day. We might be the underdogs, but I don't think there's going to be a bottom-of-the-ninth comeback for us, complete with _Rocky-_style training montages and slow-motion cheering from the adoring masses. (There _would_ be adoring masses, of course; with a face as cute as mine, I'm always surrounded by fans, and my cred would only be improved by being recognized as a hero.) But reality can be a bitch, if you'll pardon my French, and I don't know if we're going to get lucky.

So with all this stress, enough angst to fill a Sarah McLaughlin album, _why_ am I standing in the hallway outside Jake's classroom, waiting to invite more into my life? Well, you know what they say: the heart wants what it wants. And sometimes the heart doesn't care much about timing.

I can't stop shaking, and I'm pretty sure I'm wearing a path through the mint-and-mucus-colored linoleum floor. (You know, I overheard the high-school principal mention that this was the cheapest tile available, which explains the eye-meltingly ugly color. Only the best for America's youth, I guess.) Inside the classroom, I can hear the teacher droning on and on about some Shakespeare play, but it's like I'm Charlie Brown; I can't make out any of the words, only a vague nasally undercurrent of sound. But then again, I'm not sure I'm in much of a state of mind to make out anything, let alone the finer points of _King Lear. _I just keep listening for Jake's voice, asking himself to be excused. Isn't he going to do it soon? Can he even hear Tobias?

Where _is _that lousy bird, anyway?

As though I've summoned him, he's there. «Okay, Marco. He definitely heard me.»

I jump, immediately feeling guilty. At the same time I hear Jake's voice, low and patient as always but with just the faintest undercurrent of tension, asking to go to the nurse. That eats up a lot more time than a bathroom break; clearly our fearless leader is expecting the worst. What did Tobias _say_ to him, exactly?

Of course, I can't actually communicate any of these thoughts to him, so as usual I only have myself for an audience. That's okay, though. I'm very appreciative of myself. I always get my jokes.

«I'm out of here.» There's an awkward pause as he tries to decide how much to admit he knows. «Good luck, man.»

I have just a moment to wonder if this is the stupidest thing I've ever done (it is. Even counting that one time with all those trash cans). Just a moment to savor the safe, sepulchral silence of a hallway when class is in session.

Just a moment before I ruin the last good thing left in my life.

* * *

It wasn't always like this, okay? It's not like I spent our entire friendship drawing Jake's name in little hearts in my notebook or something. Heck, I've _never_ done that! I'm not some gooey teenage girl.

I'm still Marco.

It's funny, but I'm not sure I ever would've admitted it without the whole Animorphs thing, to myself or to anyone else. I mean, before then I might've . . . _noticed_ some things about Jake that I didn't care about with other people — dumb things, like the color of his eyes and the fact that he has these really big arms, almost too big for the rest of his body. It's a little funny, but there's something endearing about it all the same. They're very safe arms.

But it's not like I was in _love_ with him or anything. Not until it became abundantly clear that I might lose him.

You know what's really awful? I almost quit the Animorphs in the beginning. Who wants to be on the losing team, right? And I had my dad to look after. Obviously I changed my mind, and as much as I wanna say it was because the earth needed saving and I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I gave up, my heart grew three sizes, yadda yadda yadda . . . that wasn't even close to the main reason. Mostly it was my mom — finding out she was enslaved to Visser One kinda made me reevaluate my life choices, you know? But weirdly enough, almost abandoning the world to total annihilation isn't the part that I feel most guilty about. It's that, until I decided I was in again, I'd been planning on bringing Jake with me.

Yeah, I should've known that our fearless leader would fearlessly lead until the bitter end, but even as we prepared for my last mission — well, what I'd assumed would be my last mission — I was running through ways to convince him to walk away, too. Leave the fighting to the warrior princesses and the Andalites and the people like Tobias who don't have anything left to risk; just quit, because I can't imagine losing you. I'd have conked him on the head and dragged him somewhere safe if I'd thought it would do any good. I couldn't stand the thought that Jake might die because I wasn't there to watch his back. That I might have to wake up and know that he wasn't going to meet me at the end of the road, that we weren't going to walk to school together, that I'd never get to crush him at video games again and watch his eyebrows furrow together until they looked like one long caterpillar in the middle of his forehead (it's his Frustration Face) and it'd be all my fault. I decided he was too good to lose, and that was that. I was bringing him with me, and I was prepared to use all sorts of underhanded means — including emotional blackmail and a heavy guilt trip, if my flawless logic and promise to starve out Tom's Yeerk didn't work — to do it.

So there you have it: I'm really not a noble hero, just a devoted son mixed with a selfish, lovestruck dumbass. Sorry to shatter your illusions about my perfection, but I'm afraid it's the truth. At least my face is just as gorgeous as ever.

It's weird, how much something stupid like a crush can take over your emotions and develop into this disease you never wanted and can't handle. Sure, I enjoyed watching him play basketball — I would've enjoyed watching him read the newspaper, if we're being honest — and there was something really fascinating about the way he laughed, like it was reluctantly drawn out of him every time, that made me want to keep being funny. Just to see how many laughs I could get out of him. But that's easy to deal with, right? Simple friendly neighborhood idolization, nothing even particularly romantic about it. Minor jealousy over Tobias joining our friend group, a little irritation over Cassie becoming such a regular feature in our conversations (I mean, really. _I'm _prettier than Cassie. Prettier than most people, though, so maybe that's not a fair comparison). It's the kind of thing you can push out of your head with a joke and move on with your day.

After this war began, though . . . maybe it's being around each other so much more often, maybe it's the whole almost-dying-at-least-once-a-week thing that gives you perspective, but it was like a light switched on in my brain, and things started creeping up on me. Mostly fear.

I've reached a point where I literally can't breathe while he demorphs. I don't care if he's only been in morph for ten minutes, part of me is always terrified that something will go wrong and he'll end up like Tobias (or worse, some sort of half-morphed monstrosity) and my breath just stops the moment his skin starts shifting and can't start back up until he's standing again, whole and healthy and perfect, all wounds forgotten like a bad dream. It's a real pain, let me tell you. Someday that guy is going to get me killed, just by demorphing too slowly.

And there's a thousand other things: if his hands are doing anything I cannot focus, part of my brain is always turned outward so that I don't miss a thought-speak message from or about him, and try as I might I can't bring myself to love Cassie the way everyone else does.

I don't know if that's love — Oprah is strangely quiet on the subject — but if it isn't I'm pretty sure I belong in a looney bin.

Sometimes I think I'd prefer that.

* * *

A/N: Beta'd by the brilliantly talented arin. This story would never have seen the light of day without their wonderful advice and encouragement. All mistakes are mine, and everyone should go read their Animorphs fics too.

Cover art includes the picture by Schreiend. It's a shame the picture is so small (stupid ff sizing regulations!) or you'd be able to see it in better detail. The gray smudge thing is actually text, which says "What happened to us?" — which I think is rather fitting, all things considered. To see the artwork in its full glory, please go to htt*p:/*/schreiend.*deviantart.*com*/art*/AM-Best-Friends-86392109. Just remove the asterisks, and be sure to check out their other stuff at http*:/*/schreiend.*deviantart.*com!


	2. Two

Looking back, it's so painfully obvious. Every clue stands out like a shining beacon, shouting "OF COURSE YOU LOVE HIM, YOU MORON!" Listening to Jake explain to his teacher that yes, he really _is _going to blow chunks all over the classroom, every embarrassing-in-hindsight scene runs through my head like Marco's Most Cringeworthy Moments Theater. Playing all the hits while we wait for the latest screwup, which should be any minute now . . .

* * *

"Another failed date?" Rachel asked with a laugh, leaning against one of the several hay bales that littered Cassie's barn. "What'd you do this time?"

Cassie shot her a reproving look and patted my hand, a move that reminded me of my mother. When I yanked away she looked hurt, but quickly replaced it with an expression of understanding and sympathy that I'd just bet was genuine. I swear, she's like a freaking saint. Who's _that_ perfect all the time?

Somehow I'm the only one who finds it annoying.

Realizing I was being uncharitable, I flashed her my most charming smile and said, "Oh, nothing big. She just didn't appreciate true brilliance when she saw it."

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Yeah, you're a regular Casanova. What's this, your fifteenth disaster this month?"

"Only my tenth," I joked, sticking my tongue out at her. Sure, the jabs stung at my precious ego, but I didn't really care. It wasn't like any of these girls were especially important to me. They were cute, don't get me wrong, but . . . I don't know, they were missing that certain special something. That _je ne sais quoi _that I'd never been able to put into words. "I think I just have the worst taste in girls. No sense of humor at all."

As I embarked on a recap of the date (an epic tale involving the zoo and an extremely affectionate howler monkey) I was aware of Cassie's eyes never leaving mine — aware of it like you're aware of head lice, that kind of itching, squirming discomfort that comes from being watched by someone you'd really prefer to just ignore you. There was something strangely sad and puzzled in her expression, like she was on the verge of figuring out some mystery but not sure she wanted to. Or like a disturbing suspicion was close to being confirmed.

"You've really had a lot of bad luck, haven't you?" she murmured once the story was finished. "With girls, I mean."

I held up my hands, shaking my head and chuckling. "Hey, don't make it sound like I'm some awkward weirdo."

"But you _are _an awkward weirdo," Rachel interjected helpfully.

"I've been in a bit of a rough patch, but I'm still young and beautiful. Don't worry about me."

She didn't look convinced. "Well, if that's all it is . . ."

"It is." I stopped as Jake entered with Ax, pausing in the doorway to check the sky for Tobias. Standing there, backlit by the sunlight with his torso half-turned away and a hand shading his eyes, he looked strangely eternal. Like some sort of ancient hero resurrected from the annals of history. (Okay, so I might get a little over-flowery when I think about him. In retrospect that should've been a clue.)

I didn't look away until he turned back to us, then I pretended to brush something off my shirt. "Having fun, guys?"

Rachel ordered me to tell the story again, which I did with a bit more flair than the first time; gesturing grandly, I almost smacked Tobias as he swooped into the barn. Ax didn't get the humor, but Jake laughed enough for both of them, and despite myself I felt lighter and more excited than I had before the date of doom.

I was glad it was such a nightmare, because telling the story for him seemed worth it.

* * *

The door opens.

"Hey," he says, looking confused and a little worried to see me waiting. "Tobias said something big was going on, but he wouldn't give me any details." His face darkens, and he steps closer until we're nearly touching. "It's not Tom, is it?" he asks quietly.

I swallow hard; I hadn't expected him to get this close, and definitely not with that sad, determined look on his face. I stumble back, shaking my head rapidly and hitting myself in the eye with a curl of almost-black hair (it's beautiful, I know. I'm never cutting it short again). "No, nothing like that. Everything's fine on that front. On all fronts, really." _Just make those frown lines disappear, please. Just for a few more seconds before I have to put them back._

He relaxes, though he's obviously confused. "Ooookaaayy," he says. "So what's up?"

"I just . . . wanted to see if we could talk for a little bit." Suddenly needing air, I step back and gesture towards the doors. "Care to play hooky?"

"I guess," he replies, hesitantly falling into step beside me. "But if I fail this class it's your fault."

I snort. "Please, if you do badly it's because you don't understand a single word of Shakespeare. You can't blame me for that."

"Like _you_ do?" he shoots back.

"I do!" I really do.

* * *

We're reading _Othello _in my English class, and if you ask me, Jake's missing out. I'm sure Lear is a really cool guy and whatever, but _Othello _is timeless. I don't know why we even bother reading the other plays.

I know, I know, you can't believe _Marco _is enjoying school? And Shakespeare, the most school-y thing in the universe? I was shocked, too. It's just . . . I don't know, something about a guy getting jealous over a love he can never have (well, he _can_, but he doesn't know that) really resonates with me. Weird, right?

"Let's get into Othello's head for a second, here. You can feel the pain he's experiencing as he watches Desdemona and Cassio. He loves her so much it blinds his rational thought, so that even the most innocent words and actions are fraught with sexual tension. It tortures him, knowing that the woman he wants more than anything doesn't share that desire, and he has to see this agonizing fact play out in front of him over and over again." Normally I ignore my teachers as a rule, but that really got my attention. And since that class, I haven't been able to get it out of my mind.

The thing is, I think I get Othello. You know, aside from him being incredibly gullible and a murderer. I'm not _that _messed up yet.

Jake and Cassie are really obvious about how they feel, if you know what to look for. I know Rachel and Tobias have some idea — Ax, as usual, is unaware of anything that doesn't have to do with cinnamon buns-uns-uns-sssss — but I'm like a heat-seeking missile that only targets awkward, secret romance. Somehow I'm always looking in the right direction to see their hands "accidentally" brush and linger longer than strictly necessary, the glances that are held just long enough for a delicate pink flush to spread across his cheeks and down his neck, or hear the awkward crack in his voice sometimes when he says her name. Honestly, I wonder how they get anything done with that much energy expended trying not to look like they're a _thing_. It's not very conducive to fighting a war, is all I'm saying. Did that sound bitter?

Once we were discussing a routine reconnaissance mission and, when he thought no one was looking, he leaned over and gave her a peck on her jawline, just below her ear. She giggled silently and shoved him away before anyone turned around, but Jake noticed that I'd seen. He flashed me a sheepish smile, pressing his lips together as though worried I'd spill the secret to everyone. And part of me wanted to, but I knew it'd just result in them being all cutesy in the open and I'm not sure I could handle that. Besides, I knew he'd get _so _embarrassed — he's like a kid when it comes to things like that — and I couldn't do that to him.

I grinned back and shook my head, feeling my stomach curdle. The look of relief on his face sent a sharp stab of pain through my midsection, and I curled around myself for the rest of the meeting, trying to smile and joke and be the practical, sarcastic funnyman they expect me to be. Because it's my job and Jake needs me to do it, so I will even as my guts feel like they're trying to twist themselves inside out.

Yeah, I understand jealousy.


	3. One

"Come on, Marco." We're sitting on the concrete wall that runs alongside the steps, our legs hanging over a small drop. "You're starting to freak me out."

Now that it's time to say it, I don't have any words. I've rehearsed this hundreds of times in my mirror, but suddenly every joke, every explanation, every smart comment is sucked out of my head like someone held a vacuum up to my ear. I scan the sky and see the shadow of a hawk circling well out of earshot. Tobias dips one wing at us and disappears over the building. Gone, but not too far.

"I don't really know how to, you know, put it into . . . like, human sentences." God, that sounded stupid. I'm supposed to be _good_ at talking! "It's kinda hard to explain."

Jake waits patiently, gazing out at the small stand of woods on the edge of campus. If it wasn't for the set in his jaw, you'd think he was perfectly at ease waiting to hear whatever announcement was so important it pulled him out of class. I wonder if he knows.

Please, God, let him know and make this easier on me.

Please, God, don't let him know and make this easier on him.

"Listen, Jake, I'm a little . . . gay. A lot, actually."

He freezes for about half a second, then nods. It's a jerky movement, a quick up-and-down with his chin that I know means he's surprised, but already accepting it. "Oh. Okay." Then he glances at me, and I can see that he's worried he's not making a big enough deal about it. After all, it couldn't wait until the end of class. . . . "I mean, good for you. That's cool. I . . . you know that I'll always be your best friend no matter what, right? This doesn't change anything."

This is the awful part. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, savoring his support and hoping that my next words won't totally shatter it. "Actually, it kinda does."

* * *

I should've known Cassie would be the first to figure it out — and that Jake would be the last. He's such a lunkhead and she's so perceptive; they really work well together, much as I hate to say it. But that's not nice, and I've promised myself that I'll be better about the two of them. I'm really trying, and most of the time I'm happy that they're so happy together. It's just that, on occasion, I feel like I'm going to throw up and want to punch something until either it or I fall down. I guess that's one of the uglier sides of love, the kind that boy bands won't sing about.

It happened a few days ago — the day I was talking about earlier, with the date story. The meeting was over and everyone was a little angry (we'd decided the Yeerks were planning something nasty but there was nothing we could do about it but wait, a situation that no one was thrilled with). Jake's Frustration Face was in full strength, and it took more willpower than I'd like to admit to keep from going up to him and trying to smooth the worry lines off his forehead. I was lagging behind a little, as usual, when I heard her voice by my ear. "Hey, can we talk for a second? I _really_ need help with that math homework." She said it loud enough for the others to hear, and with a little wave pulled me back into the barn.

For a few moments we just sat in uncomfortable silence. I flopped onto a hay bale with my arms crossed and a sullen expression — like I said, we were all cranky — while she hovered awkwardly above me, fiddling with a hole in her overalls. "I'm sorry about your date," she finally said. "That's a real shame."

I shrugged. "Like I said, no big deal. Appreciate all the caring, but I'm really fine, if that's all this is about." I moved to stand up and follow the others.

"Do you ever think, maybe . . . you're sabotaging your dates?"

That made me freeze. Mouth hanging open slightly, I paused in my half-crouched position and blinked up at her. "Come again?"

She shrugged. "I just wondered if . . . well, if you were messing them up on purpose."

Recovering control of my limbs, I sat back down and tried to arrange my face into an amused expression. "And why exactly would I do that?"

"You tell me." Now it was her turn to cross her arms and mine to shrug.

"I have no idea, Cassie. This is your little drama. I'm just an actor here." I did a reasonable job appearing cool and unconcerned, and I like to think that with someone less discerning, like Rachel, I could've passed for nonchalant. I had to keep my hands pressed against the hay to disguise how sweaty they'd gotten, and my heart was pounding so loud and fast I half-expected Tobias to swoop in in search of prey, but otherwise I was cool as a cucumber.

Suddenly Jake popped his head in. "Marco, you done? Looks like rain, and I promised Mom I'd be home to help with dinner." He rolled his eyes and leaned against the doors, running a hand through his hair in an especially attention-drawing way.

And there went any hope of me fooling the Queen of Noticing Things. One look at my face — I can't even imagine the expression — and the way I immediately looked down at my feet, and it was all over. "Just a minute," she said brightly, snatching up her backpack and opening it. "Got a few questions I just can't figure out. Can you go check and make sure none of the chickens escaped? Dad thinks they're learning how to open the gate." Once he was gone, she knelt down, putting one hand on my knee. "Marco."

For a moment I considered just keeping my gaze on my feet and not saying anything. La la la, I can't hear you. Just looking at some mighty attractive sneakers. But I couldn't do that, and I didn't really want to.

After a while it gets really hard trying to keep a secret all by yourself.

I looked up at her face with a desperation I hadn't expected and couldn't control. Part of me assumed she'd be glaring at me, demanding I get my perverted paws off her unofficial boyfriend, but of course that was stupid. She was simply looking, her lips pressed together in a thin line. She didn't seem angry, just resigned. Resigned and sad.

It came out no stronger than a whisper: "I don't know what to do."

"Me neither." She moved to sit next to me and put an arm around my shoulder, pulling me over until my head rested against her own. "But I think you have to tell him."

"I'd really rather not." She laughed hollowly, and I couldn't help but smile. For someone I sometimes sort-of hated, she was actually very nice. I _did _want to steal her boyfriend, after all. Not that I ever would. He was happy, and I'm not exactly his type.

"I still think it'd be good for you. For both of you."

"Probably." We sat in silence, wallowing in shared misery. "Do I have to do it now, though?"

She shook her head, her coarse and kinky hair rubbing against my temple. "No. Not until you're ready."

"And if I never am?"

She paused, and we listened to the sounds of Jake crunching around the barnyard and calling for the chickens. "I don't know."


	4. Zero

In the end I can't bring myself to say it, but it doesn't matter. Lunkhead or not, Jake isn't a moron, and he figures it out after a long enough silence.

I watch the realization dawn on him like seeing a pantomime in profile: the brow furrowed in thought, the one eye I can see widening, the jerk like he'd been hit with something, the color draining from his face, finally culminating in him meeting my eyes with a shellshocked, zombielike expression. "_Me?_"

Still unable to speak, I just nod, a dumb nervous grin spreading across my face even though I know that's the absolute worst facial expression possible (except murderous rage. So I'm still handling this better than Othello). I bite my lip to control it, which just results in a crooked half-smile — not much better, but at least it now looks ironic. "Sorry, Big Jake. You're quite the charmer."

He doesn't appreciate the joke. His complexion still cheeselike, there is a flash of anger, of Frustration Face. I read his mind as well as if he were thought-speaking to me: _How can you joke at a time like this? _And then, immediately after, _Why are you doing this to me? _"I don't know if you've noticed, but we're kinda in the middle of a war, buddy." His voice is hardly more than a breath, infused with the weakest shred of humor.

"I know the timing's pretty bad," I agree quickly, "but I . . . I couldn't keep it . . . you know. I waited until last period, though, so you don't have to go back to class." I offer this last like an olive branch. Look, see how I still care for you. I'm always gonna have your back.

I've been trying to keep the naked, futile hope out of my voice and face, but I must not be doing good enough, because he sees or hears something that dissolves all the anger. Involuntarily I cringe away from him, because what's left is worse somehow — the raw, crushing anguish of not being able to give me what I want. He's fighting with every muscle in his face to keep from crying, and I know in this moment that if there was a way to turn him gay (a love potion, whatever the opposite of those prayer camps is) he'd do it. I even think I can see him wondering if he could fake it, just to make me happy.

In this moment I can read his love on his face, and it's not what I want but it feels like so much. It almost feels like enough.

The moment ends. Giving up, his head drops into his hands, and I hear a choked sound that's like a mix between a sob and a gulp. "I'm not . . . Marco, I'm sorry, but I can't."

"I know. I don't expect you to." God, this sucks a lot more than I'd thought it would. Well, less in some ways — he's not yelling homophobic slurs at me like he did in my nightmares (which wasn't likely, but fear, like love, is irrational sometimes), and he hasn't started running for the woods yet — but I'd been so focused on how much this would hurt _me _that I'd barely even considered the pain I'd be putting my best friend in, and that's much worse than anything I'm going through.

It kinda makes me feel like a dick, if we're being honest.

"I'm sorry." He keeps saying it, his voice muffled by his hands. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Despite how I feel, despite how much I hate everything including and especially myself, I can't help but roll my eyes. "Jeez, you say it like it's _your_ fault."

I'm offering him a lifeline, and he can feel it. Still not looking at me, he lifts his head and mumbles, "I guess I am pretty lovable. My mother told me I'd a heartbreaker."

I chuckle, a weak and weary sound that is 90% air. "She'll be thrilled to be proven right. Mothers usually are." We both stop, feeling the full force of those words for an oppressive moment. He's broken my heart. He didn't mean to, he didn't want to, _I _sure as heck didn't want it to happen, but here we are. That sounds good, and I say it out loud: "Here we are."

He nods, looking drained and empty. "We're . . . are we going to be okay?" In that question I can feel the expectations we have to live up to, the war we have to fight, the inconveniences I've created.

I also hear the friendship we've strained, a friendship that is still so precious despite it all. Maybe even a little bit _because _of it all. I hear that he's not interested in walking away just because things might get awkward. He just doesn't want me to be in pain because of him.

_A little late, man. _But I lean forward so he can see me and raise one eyebrow. "Hey, don't think just because of this I'm going to stop bugging you. Who else would I crush at _Mario Kart_?"

A weak smile quirks at his lips. "You're not _that_ good."

"_Au contraire, _my sausage-fingered friend. You handle the control stick like it's a basketball, all force and no finesse. T'is why you shall never defeat me."

"Also because you play video games 24/7."

Suddenly this whole thing hits me; now that I no longer have to comfort him, I need to get out of here before I have a total breakdown. I punch his shoulder and climb to my feet. "Come on. You've got class to not go to, and I've got . . . stuff to do."

He winces like I've struck him, and I know he can hear it in my voice. "Right. I'll go . . ." Unable to finish the thought, he clears his throat and shuffles his feet.

"Yeah, me too."

"Listen, if you need to . . . I don't know . . ." He's desperately clawing for words, and once again I'm mad at myself for creating this whole stupid situation. "I don't want you to feel like you've lost your friend," he finishes, turning pleading eyes on me. Pleading, beautiful eyes.

I need to get out of here.

"Jake, we're fine. We'll be better later. But you can't scare me away — I'm incapable of fear, not after seeing Ax tear through the food court. Now _that's _terrifying. This? Is just . . . awkward. We've always been awkward." The words are tumbling out of my mouth in no particular order, and I can't tell if they make any sense. I'm just trying to get out of here with a teeny shred of my dignity intact.

It seems to make sense to him, though. "Good. That's good. I'll see you." He nods his head up and down like one of those weird bobblehead dolls, and I nod back at him, turning to escape to the little stand of woods.

"I'm sorry." I turn and see his face, a rictus of misery like one of those tragedy masks.

Shit.

He doesn't get how badly I need him to stop being sad. To stop drawing this out. To leave me alone so _I _can be sad for a little while.

He sees some of this in my face and waves me away. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't . . . I'm not . . . I'm just sorry. Get out of here."

"Aye-aye, Captain." This is the last thing I'm able to say, and I don't even check to see whether he's gone back inside or toward the road or morphing into a bird right there on the school steps before I'm gone, headed straight for the copse of trees. Once I reach them, I collapse, wrapping my arms around a sapling that can barely support my weight and sinking to the ground.

I don't think I've ever cried like this since I thought my mom was dead. Not even after the most harrowing battles have I felt so out of control. Duties to self done, best friend comforted as best as possible, I couldn't form coherent sentences if Visser Three were pointing a dracon beam at my head. They're crippling, throat-tearing sobs that seem to spring up from some deep well inside that I didn't even know I had. I'm smeared with tears and sap and dirt and snot and I just can't bring myself to care. Who cares if I look cute or pathetic or stupid or whatever?

It's not like it matters much anyway.


	5. One (again)

"Tobias, can you do me a favor?"

We haven't always gotten along — I guess I don't really make friends easily with anyone except Jake — but he was there when I went looking for him, perched in the lightning-struck tree that he's made his home. And give him credit, he didn't ask any questions when he saw me in morph gear and with red eyes. «Sure,» he said, ruffling his feathers. «What do you need?»

It's a bit of a group effort, actually. Of course I went to Cassie first. I told her that I couldn't keep quiet anymore. That I wanted to move on. That a crazy part of me still hoped somehow it'd work out. (Okay, I didn't tell her that last bit, but I still think she knew.) I didn't really need her help, but I thought it'd keep me from chickening out if someone knew when it was going down. And I like to think that a small, selfless part of me wanted her to be around in case he needed comforting afterwards, someone to tell him that it wasn't his fault, and I knew she'd be the best person for that.

It hadn't occurred to me that she'd want to make sure I had some comfort, too. But of course she'd thought of that.

"Ask Tobias to help," she said. "He can get Jake out there so you two can talk without people around." I remember thinking at the time that this wasn't really necessary. I could find another way to get ahold of him. But she'd insisted, and I don't know if she talked to him first or if he'd just figured it out (he _does _have hawk eyes, after all), but whatever the case was, he was there, performing his small, useless task and sticking around to make sure everything was okay in the end.

We don't always get along, but he's a good friend.

They all are.

* * *

After what feels like hours I come back to myself. I sit up and wipe my face with my sleeve. "Some brave warrior," I mutter, sniffling. "The Yeerks should see me now. They'd all run away in fear of being drowned." Climbing to my feet, I continue the monologue. "Slugs hate saltwater, right? I could end the war right now."

"Hey, Marco." Of all the people I might've expected to see, Rachel is not high on the list. But there she is, stepping gingerly through the needles and sticks in her leotard and bare feet, looking absolutely beautiful despite all odds. Part of me wishes _she_ was the one I was hopelessly in love with; that'd at least be less complicated.

"Hi." I look her up and down, shaking my head. "Don't tell me you went to school like that."

She flips her hair over her shoulder. "Of course not. Tobias came and got me and Cassie. Just . . . you know, in case."

"She's . . . ?"

"With Jake." I flinch at the name — wonder how long that will last? — and see a rare expression of sympathy.

But neither of us are especially emotional, and definitely not with each other, so we both pretend nothing happened. "That's good," I say, then smirk. It's a small and shaky replica of my normal expression, but I can tell Rachel's relieved to see it. "So why are you all stripped down? If it's for my benefit, I'm afraid you've wasted your time. No offense."

"I thought maybe you'd like to go flying with Tobias and me." She shrugs. "We were going to go visit Ax for a bit when school ended, but today's too nice not to skip class."

It's a sweet lie, and a surprisingly tender gesture from Xena. I pull off my overclothes and bury them safely under some leaves. "Does he know anything? About . . . uh, this?"

Rachel wrinkles her nose as we begin to morph. "How bout we let Cassie explain that to him? I'm not sure how well he understands things like human emotions. Or _any_ emotions." To her credit and my eternal gratitude, she doesn't ask whether I can handle the afternoon without breaking down. I don't know whether she has confidence in my self-control or is comfortable letting me be less than my usual cool self, but both are fine by me.

Speaking of . . . I take to the sky, enjoying the strain of flapping to get above the trees and over the parking lot, then letting the thermals buoy me up to where Tobias is still circling over the school building.

He doesn't say anything about Jake. He simply wheels around and leads us toward Ax's shelter, gliding and weaving through the pockets of air. Suddenly he breaks into a corkscrewing dive, blasting past Rachel and I. «Race you!» he calls, and even though hawks can't grin I can hear the crazy jubilation in his voice.

«We're not gonna let him _win_, right?» Rachel catches another thermal and shoots up into the air.

I surprise myself by laughing. «Of course not. Let's do it!»

Before she can complain that I've stolen her line, I rocket past her, shooting up towards the sun.

* * *

Shit happens. Gay guys fall in love with straight ones. Aliens invade the planet. Mothers are lost and then found and then lost again. Battles are won and kids are endangered. Life goes on.

And time?

Time turns to a new page and starts over.

Another countdown.


End file.
